Death
by ju-crom
Summary: Clove in her final moments. May be more chapters to come. But for now, I'll leave it at that.


I've never really thought about what might happen after we die. I've seen the hovercraft's fly over and snatch up the bodies of the dead, and I know those bodies are taken to the Capitol and cleaned up before they're sent back to the District they came from. I know because every year we get at least one box and the whole District mourns the loss of one or both of our tributes. But I'd never given much thought a to spiritually what happens. Do we become ghosts? Do we really cross over to the Pearly white gates where a glowing man with a beard who created all of us waits to let us in? To forgive us for our sins? Even though we brutally murdered innocent lives in the Arena?

I've never really believed in God. Sure, I've called out to him when I was in pain, or to express my exasperation when somebody did something stupid. But I've never truly believed he existed. Even now as I'm dying, I don't think I'll be going to the Pearly white gates. Somehow, I think that if God exists, he wouldn't forgive my sins. There have been too many to count.

All the people I have killed in the Arena. My hatred for my father, for my mother, for no reason other than giving birth to me in the Districts. If they had gone through the Reaping themselves when they were younger, why would they even think they had the right to bring a child into the world and then put that child in the same position? The things I have said to them in my short 17 years have been inexcusable, yet I am always excused. Because its just stress that makes me say them. Or it's just that overwhelming feeling of hopelessness that makes me know that I might be chosen for the Reaping that causes me to yell and scream at my father and tell my mother I hate her.

I wish I'd never been born.

It's the first time I've ever had that thought which is ironic since I'm dying. I'm not alone though. I can hear Cato screaming at me to stay with him. I can feel his hands, the deadly power he holds within them. I find it interesting that the very same hands that hold the sword that kills people, the very same hands that broke 3's neck not four days ago, had the power to be so soft and caring. Even now as I'm starting to drift into oblivion I can feel his hands cupping my face, ever so gently. Like he's scared he'll break me if he applies any amount of pressure. I want to scream at him, scream that I'm dead and he needs to go or he'll be dead too. But my lips are not mine any more. I lost my control for those not long after I stopped moaning.

My eyes are not my own either. I cannot move them so they stare blankly straight ahead. If he has to have his hands on my face why doesn't he do something useful, like turn me to face him. My last vision will be of the blood that is slowly pouring from my wound, the first rays of sunlight making it glisten like diamonds. I direct my thoughts down another track. Diamonds were a thing of luxury and luxury made me think of Glimmer. And my thoughts, my dying thoughts should be something pleasant. Like flowers.

And I catch sight of them, a few feet away. I've always loved flowers. No-one knew this of course. I was Clove, the girl with the knives. No-one had considered the possibility that Clove was a girl, and girls appreciated beauty.

Cato had become a thing of beauty. He hadn't started off that way. I'd thought of him as a monster, a terrifying boy who had only one thing on his mind: killing everything. But as I spent more time with him he grew on me. He grew in my heart and each time I looked at him, he began to glow. He was shining brightly now, because he's finally had the sense to move my head for me and I find myself staring at him. It's like staring at the sun, so bright and radiant. I can just make out his eyes through all the shine and I force my unresponsive lips to smile, to form one final word.

"Cato."

Natures perfection, here in a single being. He's crying, but I only know because I can feel the tears drop onto my face. They rest there before trickling down my cheeks to run down my neck. And there's the softest of pressures on my lips but I can't see anything. It's too bright. He's brighter than the sun now. I can feel myself slip away and I know I'm dead. The brightness keeps rising until its too bright to see and then I see no more.

But I keep that image of his face with me as I die. He was my final hope. My only love. And he will be the one who would avenge my death. I keep that image until there is no more and I am no longer with the living.


End file.
